Morocco Me: Surf’s Up!

I am beginning to think that everyone in this world has an analogue somewhere on another continent. And that a great many of them live in Morocco.

I’m sure you know what I mean: that niggling feeling that someone reminds you of (or perhaps is) someone else. In fact, one of the very first people who greeted me in Casablanca has a vocal cadence much like one of my synchronized swimming buddies in Canada. So, in my head, I call her “Morocco Sharon.” In the confines of this small campus, I have also met Morocco Dave, Morocco Catharine, Morocco Sarah; Morocco Tania, Stephanie, Krystal, Vera, Crystal, Paul, and Darlene; and, most curiously, Morocco Snow White and Morocco Barbie.

Now don’t you go asking me if one of these analogues happens to be you, and what you have in common. I know you all secretly hope that you’re Morocco Barbie, but I’ll never tell you who’s who, so don’t even ask. What I will tell you is that it is very, very interesting to meet a whole new crowd of people, and find in that aggregate elements of all the people you left behind. I seem to have already attracted a few Morocco moms and a sister or two. I’ve met people who intimidate me and people who “get” me. I’ve even met people who could be Morocco Me (or am I Morocco Me? Now that’s a puzzle. Do let me know if you come across a Canada Me while I am here).

By far the most interesting analogue so far has been an amalgamation of three very distinctive personalities. I think of him as a combination of Morocco David, Morocco Anwar, and – wait for it – Morocco Richard Simmons. Now who might I meet on Jack Beach with such an odd collection of resemblances?

Why, my surfing teacher, of course.

Yes, that’s right. I have a surfing teacher. For the low price of only 150 dirhams ($15 US, if you care to know), I spent a good two and a half hours with some colleagues and – er – “D-anwar-d” – learning how to walk on water. Or something like that.

I know, I know, you’re all snickering at the thought of me attempting such a thing. You said so on my Facebook timeline just yesterday, so don’t sit there and pretend that you believed in me all along. I went out there, against your better judgment, and rocked that ocean. Or it rocked me. Or something like that. The concept of cause and effect is very fluid here in Morocco.

Frankly, I was exhausted before we got anywhere near the water. Did you know that a wetsuit is actually a living thing that does everything in its power to resist close contact with human skin? Next time around I will be born in a wetsuit and just let it stretch around me as I grow. It would be much less uncomfortable, and certainly less arduous, than the surf shop wrestling match I undertook today. I was victorious only when I stood absolutely still with my hands over my head and waited for some random surf guy to pull everything into place. And no, it was not pleasant.

That accomplished, I graduated to sand practice. First we had to do some warm-up exercises. Enter Richard Simmons. We ran in circles on the beach (I am not a runner; and did I mention that I was already exhausted from the wetsuit ordeal?) and found our ocean zen with various surf-like yoga poses (a new fitness program I plan to propose to my gym when I return, if you don’t steal my idea first).

Then we entered the water and practiced something that I believe is called “boogie boarding.” It’s kind of like fake surfing, on your belly, with a nice, small, manageable floatation device. It was fun. It was mostly about timing. I didn’t really get the timing, but that’s what The Analogue was for. “One, two, three, go!” he’d say. Or he’d just give me a shove when the wave was just right. Easy.

Stage three: back to the sand. We sat in a circle and talked about direction, speed, and stability (did you know that surfboards have fins? Handy things, they are). We lay on our bellies and practiced three simple movements: kneel > squat > stand. We angled our feet, knees, hips and hands just right. We stood very still. It was very fulfilling.

That probably would have been enough for me for one day. But oh, no. We had to actually bring our surfboards into the water. I was already a little spent from the first few stages of this enterprise. And surfboards are bigger, heavier, and more unwieldy than you might think. I mean, they’re very easy to transport when they’re doing what they were meant to do. But we had to haul these things a very long way, against the current. And remember, the wetsuit wrestling had pretty much wiped me out to begin with.

Speaking of wipe-outs… it really wasn’t like that. When I finally got the board to the designated location, I assumed the position, the guy gave me a push, and I thought, “Holy crap! I’m surfing!” Then he yelled at me to stand up, and I did so, clumsily, for at least a few seconds. And I was like, “Yeah! See? I can surf!” And then I gracefully slipped off my board, did a pirouette, and went home.

Okay, never mind. I didn’t go home. I didn’t pirouette. I probably was not exactly graceful. But I did surf, sort of. That was actually my best ride. After a few more waves (surfers count time in waves, not minutes, by the way), my quads pretty much turned to pudding, but it didn’t matter. It was unbelievably, whooping-with-glee, high-five-ing-ly, unabashedly fun. Pardon the italics, but they are necessary. I don’t care if I never master the stance, or even stay upright for a respectable distance. There is just something so amazing about being wet, being alive, and being happy in an ocean.

After the lesson we sat around on the beach and rested a while, and the sun came out and glittered on the waves that had seemed so monstrous, but were now tickling our ankles so delicately and tenderly. The sea is such a marvelous thing.

I had heard it said that water could be a powerful force, but when one grows up paddling a canoe in northern Ontario, the idea of an ocean is mainly an abstraction. In our day of airliners and rocketships, we can cross the ocean in hours, or even minutes. We don’t know what it’s like to be out in the middle of it, with nothing to trust but the artful layout of the spinning stars. We don’t know what it’s like to cling to a vessel that is being viciously ripped apart, to be pulled under and yanked away from anything solid, to be cast upon a rock formation that seems designed for causing harm. We don’t understand why Maritimers speak of the sea as being alive, and worthy of our reverence.

I got to experience a bit of that today. Before the surfing class, a few of us went out to introduce ourselves to this new ocean of ours, and it was a no nonsense salutation. We very quickly saw how easy it would be for a malevolent sea to pick us up with its fingertips and drop us anywhere it chose. We couldn’t press pause on those waves. They weren’t following our agenda. We had to watch for them. Prepare. Respond. Not control.

If you try to hold your ground against a coming wave, a few things might happen. The sand might be sucked right out from under you. You might find yourself pushed around a little, or lifted off your feet, or even turned around. At one point I turned right upside down and did a full 360. And the harder you try to oppose that wave, the less comfortable it becomes.

Surfing is different. It’s about letting the wave do what it was designed to do: move, in its own way, as it sees fit, according to the mysteries that make it what it is. It’s about letting the board do what it was designed to do: not dragged through the sand or shoved against the current, but to find its dancing partner in the wave and tango to the shore. And the human component? It’s about joining that ensemble in time, without interfering with the rhythm of the dance.

Let movement happen. Let life happen. Let things do what they are meant to do, and be as they are meant to be. Those waves are there, doing their thing, whether we exist or not. But we can choose to ride them if we dare.

It doesn’t come naturally to us, does it? We need to take lessons. Find teachers. Get equipment. Practice. Persevere. We need to understand the theory and start our learning on the sand. But we can learn. Others have, and they are not so very unlike us.

Canada Me would not have envisioned this a year ago. Movement, change, fluidity, uncertainty – these are not my favourite things. Keeping my house was about clinging to the shoreline; letting it go was about letting the ocean bring me where it will. Why did the currents pull me this way and not that way? Our impartial ocean doesn’t care. But somehow, tied up in the rhythm of the universe, in moons and tides and gravity, there’s a centre to it all, and we are part of it.

Morocco Me, today, is reverent, but unafraid. Morocco Me is exuberant, pulsating, heady with the realization that this living world was made to hold me and lift me and carry me to places I could not have envisioned even six months ago.

What about Morocco You? Do you ever wonder where, or who you’d be, if you found that sweet spot in the wave you’re waiting for? And do the people here dream of what they’d be, if they were you?

It’s a big, beautiful, bountiful world. No one will bring it to you. Get out there. Find the thing that lifts you up. Submit to its magical movement. And ride.